September 2023
Bio Note: I was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, and came to the United States following the military coup of the 1970s. I divide my time between my desk under my mango tree and wherever my imagination takes me, except when there is a hurricane. I’m the author of Exchange at the Border, Whispers of the Soul, What Color is Your Haiku?, and Caleidoscopio. My essays and poems have appeared or are upcoming in Ariel Chart, Loch Raven Review, three issues of the Personal Story Publishing Project, and many others.
Letter from the Shore of Our Grief
A boat with four women rocks gently with the breath of the bay. At the helm, Mom contemplates a future without you. My sisters and I sit behind her, as in I got your back. We unravel the past with stories from the life we left behind. The future is filled with your absence. We begin to take charge of the remains of our life, reluctantly, in search of when, where, what, how. We sail to the sunset knowing dawn is in the horizon. The open sea shimmers with new possibilities. Knowing we can only move forward, we begin unpacking your legacy: Prepare for the storms, confront them, survive, repeat.
Jacaranda
Sitting by the window in the shadow of old age my mother yearns. An iguana climbs up the palm tree; two mockingbirds dash from oak to maple, mating dance of spring. Still, nothing compares To the jacaranda that bloomed Back home. Is this not home? I could see it from the dining room, her gaze lost in the undulating heat of the tropics, her sadness trapped in the vessel of the past. The house we left and tore down for a blueprint. A permit revoked by new city officials. The downhill tumble toward exile. Life is so fleeting. Nothing lasts forever. Except the jacaranda tree that still blooms in my mother’s memories.
©2023 Alexandra Goodwin
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